


As above, so below (kneel into a dream remix)

by asuralucier



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus (or halted handjobs), Friends With Benefits, M/M, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Slightly less porny remix of something porny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28557210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Sometimes, Eames doesn’t mind admitting to himself that he’s got a thing for arseholes.(But only sometimes.)
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58
Collections: fandomtrees





	As above, so below (kneel into a dream remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [kneel into a dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791694) by [ictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus). 



> Do yourselves a favour and read the original if you haven't already! It's a wonderful piece of porn xx
> 
> A big thank you poshly to StripySock (or else Eames might have sounded like he hailed from the north. Oops.)

_”It was good,”_ Arthur had said. Technically, it isn’t a lie. It’s not the answer Eames wants to hear by any stretch, but it was a workable, _good_ answer that gets him through the end of the week, when their job in London comes to a close. This time tomorrow, a certain MP for Islington will wake up feeling like he’s been hit by a truck. And then he’ll probably get arrested. 

All in a good day’s work. There’s something Orwellian about _good_ that Eames is beginning to hate. But that’s likely why Arthur likes—no, tolerates—the word for its unquestioned functionality. 

Sometimes, Eames doesn’t mind admitting to himself that he’s got a thing for arseholes. Aside from the usual benefits, he finds the sheer cheek of some of them refreshing. And cheek aside, Eames will always find the time to appreciate an honest man for what he is so long as he doesn’t take the piss. 

That's not something that Eames has to worry about when it comes to Arthur.

Eames can’t help but zero in on Arthur as he weaves his way expertly across the crowded floor of the bar, pints in hand. There’s just something effortless about the way Arthur moves, like he’s somehow above it all, the mess that is blokes and girls jostling against each other for space. There’s a late night game of football on, broadcasting live from Brazil. 

The table is small, barely enough room for the pints and both pairs of their elbows. But it’s not as if Eames minds the proximity. The more important thing as Arthur settles in next to him, adjusting his stool just slightly, is that he doesn’t appear to mind the closeness, either. Well, Eames would hope not, given everything they get up to above and below. A job well done always gets Arthur in a good mood. 

“What are you smirking at?” Arthur asks, taking just a moment to brush an imaginary fleck of dust off his front. 

“Sometimes I forget how ungenerous you are in your assessments of…” For a moment, Eames doesn’t quite know how he’d like to end that train of thought. 

It really doesn’t help one bit, Eames thinks, that Arthur’s face is especially attractive as he smirks. As if he thinks he’s fucking better than everyone else. This might well be true most days, “...Life? If that’s how you feel, Mr. Eames, I can certainly walk these drinks back to the bar.” 

Eames opens his mouth to say that Arthur, for all his wits, probably won’t be even able to get within throwing distance. Not a moment too late, there’s a particularly boisterous crew of lads surging, more focussed on booing the screen than watching where they’re going. Suddenly, it feels like Arthur hasn’t been as ungenerous as he could have been, because their drinks go flying. Glass smashes onto the floor and the world stops for a minute. Eames has to remind himself that it's a minute in real time.

While Eames has mostly escaped, beer has sloshed all over Arthur’s nice trousers. Eames takes just a moment to admire the way the damp material clings to Arthur’s thighs. By the time his gaze makes it up to meet Arthur’s, it’s a wonder that Arthur hasn’t killed anyone yet. He must really be in a good mood.

Eames claps him on the shoulder and slides off his stool. “Well, never mind. Let’s get you cleaned up first.” 

He’s always been the type not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Actually, now that Eames is face-to-face with it as a possibility, the fact that Arthur _isn’t_ an arsehole all the time is...surprising. He’s seen glimpses of it before, especially when the man is first and foremost preoccupied with a task, however small or brief. He is most himself, most comfortable, when some detail absorbs him utterly.

But it’s different this time, and Eames can’t exactly find the words for why. 

“You’re looking at me again,” Arthur says, peering at him curiously through the slightly smudged reflection of the mirror. 

“You say that as if I’m not allowed.” Eames avails himself of a generous wodge of paper towel and crosses over to where Arthur is standing, in only a careful pivot and a step away. “It’s a hazard of being fit, love, I’m surprised you’re not used to it by now.” 

The space is narrow, and there isn’t much room for moving around. There isn’t much room to hide either, including the obvious bloom of red that’s spreading across Arthur’s cheeks. He clears his throat and his body twitches, its intention clearly aimed towards fleeing the pretend privacy of the gents. Arthur says, his voice low, “...We don’t work together all the time.” 

"You know what? That’s crap.” Eames busies himself with his hands, dabbing carefully at the stain on Arthur’s trousers. Thankfully he’d had the good sense to wear dark trousers. . Unless someone’s taking a real long look (in which case it’s a tossup whether Arthur or Eames will throw the first punch).

“What is?” 

That’s another thing about Arthur, he’s overflowing with good sense. But sometimes, when he’s in a good mood, things change and Eames can’t pass up a golden opportunity. He drops the paper towels and the pretense, cupping Arthur’s thigh firmly. All things considered, Eames is pretty good at getting the man to stay put. He can see it now, the way Arthur wants to flee less and less. 

Arthur’s nearly there, right at the precipice between stepping back and giving in to a bad idea, as he bites down on his bottom lip. A man of practical negotiations, Arthur, and Eames loves it every single time. 

So much so that he is almost loath to move in for the kill, but then he goes for it: “...I can’t be the only person who says nice things about you, Arthur. Tells you how good you are. And we’re not even fucking yet.” 

Eames presses his mouth into the crook of Arthur’s neck, feels Arthur arch up a little to give him some room. It’s only when Eames licks over the familiar bump of Arthur’s Adam’s apple that a breathy sound finally escapes him—something between a sigh and a moan, as one of Arthur’s hands creeps up the back of Eames’s head, keeping him close. 

“—You want to fuck? Here?” Arthur’s eyes are dulled with lust, but at the same time, Eames can hear the condescending undertone that he (and admittedly, his dick) usually looks for when it comes to a great time. Suddenly, things are looking up. “And here I thought you just missed football.” 

“Cheers for not calling it soccer.” Actually Eames prefers rugby, but maybe that's a conversation for another time.

“That’d ruin the mood,” Arthur says, the derision warm in his voice. “Not that we need any more help.” 

That’s what Arthur _says_ , but his body isn’t saying that exactly. More like the opposite. Eames moves his hand up slowly, dragging his palm flat against Arthur’s forming erection and Arthur makes another sound. This one’s naked, like he’s slowly losing the will to hide himself. Eames gets to Arthur eventually, sometimes quick, sometimes slow. 

Good.

Eames’s motions are practiced and swift, he unbuckles Arthur’s belt and slips his hand in under Arthur’s shorts. Sometimes, he’s happy to be on his knees for hours, but other times, he wants it hard and fast; he wants to see Arthur come apart, with no amount of practiced condescension enough to hold him together. 

“And I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m good,” Arthur says, blunt nails scraping Eames’s skull, a plea for something, even though the man will never put it into words. He’d rather save his words for something else. “I know I am.” 

Eames gives him a good squeeze and Arthur’s breath shorts as he arches forward. “Doesn’t stop you from enjoying it.” 

“I—”

Eames shuts him up with a kiss, feeling Arthur’s words melt away with a low groan in his throat. Most of the time, Eames is more than happy to have the man speak to his heart’s content, but he wants this time to be different. 

Maybe it already is. This time, Eames is pretty damn sure he’s got Arthur’s complete attention, and he feels Arthur move against him, grinding into his grip. Arthur’s other hand slips into his pocket, probably in search of his totem. In a moment, Eames is determined that he not think about that either. 

Eames presses his thumb into the head of Arthur’s cock, and the effect is near immediate, with Arthur whispering, “Fuck.” against his ear. 

“...Good?” Eames can’t help himself. He slides his hand up again and feels a warm rush to his own groin as Arthur twitches hard against him. 

“Fuck you.” 

“In a minute, darling.” Maybe a few minutes. Eames probably should have thought this through; but really, the only thing on his mind is that this had better be more than good. He’s about fifteen years too old to fuck in in a public loo (in that he’s actually worried about fucking _logistics_ ). 

God, Arthur’s rubbed off on him in more ways than one. 

Without warning, the door to the gents’ suddenly swings open and Eames reacts quickly, edging the door of the shut shut and keeping his foot flat against it. 

A voice says, slightly muffled from the outside, “ _Fuck_! Where’d you go?”

Thankfully, the door stays shuts, leaving them alone, but slightly less than they were before. Yeah, Eames might be getting a little too old for this. 

He feels the soft curve of Arthur’s smirk right against his shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you if we get out of here,” Arthur says, “I’ll make it good, Eames.” 

And there’s that bloody word again. Arthur knows exactly what he’s doing, the bastard, not that it’s any surprise. 

But Eames will take it. He’s always let Arthur get away with too much, and the thing that Eames likes most about bad habits is that they’re hard to break.


End file.
